


all that makes us

by searwrites (sears)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Exchange Student, F/F, First Time, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, american ymir, english krista, modern/hs au, punk ymir, pwp basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2596970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sears/pseuds/searwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from request for yumikuri modern au on tumblr:</p>
<p>ymir/krista | modern/hs!au where ymir is american and krista is an english exchange student | warnings for minor mentions of homophobic slurs, derogatory slurs in general, sexual content, punk/grunge ymir, swearing, underage smoking/drinking + mentions recreational drugs | rated, 5kish</p>
<p>for nat <3</p>
<p>-----------</p>
            </blockquote>





	all that makes us

There are times when Ymir wonders how an entire class of kids at an inner-city high school could be so naive and uncultured - and this is one of them.

It’s orientation day, and since they’re seniors now - which apparently holds some kind of inane weight - they have their orientation at the local community college, in one of the lecture rooms that’s still empty before classes actually begin. There’s this odd sort of hovering swarm towards one corner of the room, and Ymir is just tall enough to peek over all their heads to catch a glimpse at what everyone seems to be gawking at, hands stuffed casually in the pockets of her jacket as she lifts herself a little onto her toes.

What she sees is a pretty little blonde thing who looks more like a cornered cat than anything else, just toeing the line between timid and hissing with claws extended. She's got enormous, innocent looking blue eyes that turn almost green around the edges, and Ymir can only see that much because she's still somewhat startled by all the people taking interest in her, wide-eyed and wary. It isn’t until Ymir wanders over towards where everyone’s dropping their bags off that she hears everyone talking about it, some of the ridiculous comments and questions directed at the poor girl herself, still caged in near the stairs by a circle of curious bodies.

_“She’s from London England, I wonder if she knows the queen!”_

_“Do they have cars in the UK? Or just trains?”_

_“I bet she’s rich.”_

_“Have you ever met anyone famous? Like David Beckham?”_

At this one Ymir turns with a scowl, “Shut the fuck up Sasha, you’re from LA, what the hell?”

“It’s a different kind of celebrity,” Sasha retorts, and then shamefully makes her way over to where Ymir is currently stuffing her jacket into one of the little wooden cubby holes. Makes no sense that a college is better equipped than most of the preschools around here, but whatever.

“Did you meet her? She’s really nice, but I think she’s kind of afraid of us.”

“Well no shit,” Ymir grumbles, “You all are around her like a pack of fucking hyenas.”

Sasha quirks a brow, leans up on the balls of her feet to reach Ymir’s ear, and then whispers, “She’s cute, too.”

Ymir swats her away.

The school itself is kind of small and ratty, so it isn’t all that surprising that everyone clings to the poor girl like she’s a shiny new toy. After a handful of minutes only casually watching from a distance, the guidance advisors all blow their ridiculous whistles and order everyone to sit.

Even on a budget they still manage to get a room too small. There aren’t enough seats, so some of the kids are forced to sit on the shallow set of stairs lining the wall, Ymir included. The steps are wide enough that two people can sit on them, and Ymir is a little taken aback when little blonde Miss London sits herself right next to her.

Ymir doesn’t really react - she’s perfected the art of acting like you don’t care. Instead she leans back, her spine pressed to the wall, and outstretches her legs. The girl seems to copy her, which Ymir barely refrains from laughing at, and stretches her legs alongside Ymir’s. Her feet barely reach the middle of Ymir’s shins. She’s tiny.

“I like your shoes,” The girl says, in this lilting and soft accent that Ymir wasn’t quite expecting - not like she’d been expecting the girl to talk to her at all. With her own velvet black flats, she nudges Ymir’s leg as if Ymir might not have understood the word _shoe_ , like they speak different languages.

“Thanks,” Ymir says, allowing herself the smallest of glances to her side. The girl has on a pleated black skirt and a white polo. Plain, but in a good way, the pale skin of her legs contrasting Ymir's dark, skin tight jeans, the seams on the outside sewn with dental floss to make them even tighter. Ymir reflexively points and pulls back her toes, showing off the work of most of 11th grade’s lunch hours - band names and sketches drawn in fabric paint on black converse, little smiley faces with x’s for eyes.

“My name’s Historia,” the girl says quietly, leaning in towards Ymir’s ear while keeping her eye on the teacher currently speaking at the podium, “But call me Krista.”

Ymir turns her head, their faces close. “Ymir,” she says, holding out a hand like a total fucking dweeb. Krista grins at her like she knows she’s embarrassed by acting formal, and then shakes her hand with a delicate curve to her wrist. “Just Ymir.”

Throughout the day Krista sort of latches to Ymir, follows her to the makeshift cafeteria in the lounge for their free lunch, picks at her turkey wrap with a face that says she isn’t all that impressed. Ymir has to bite back the urge to say, _“We don’t eat hotdogs and burgers all the time,”_ but it seems almost cruel, an instinct to reject the one thing everyone else wants. It’s a new kind of feeling to feel wanted herself, really, and she isn't quite sure she understands why Krista sticks to her side the whole day. Maybe it's because she's the only one that left her the hell alone earlier.

When they walk out of the college at the end of the orientation, one of the advisers stops Krista to speak with her, and Ymir doesn’t notice until she’s outside. She goes through a few trying minutes of internal debate - should she wait? or should she just leave? - before Krista comes stomping out, a little red in the cheeks, her small gray hoodie wrapped around her tightly. It looks like she's cold, though Ymir's even a little warm in her jacket, which is thin and old.

“We can go to my place,” Ymir says, nudging Krista’s tiny shoulder with her elbow, “My dad’s never home.”

“Okay,” Krista agrees, and then seems to burst as she asks, “Are all your teachers pricks?”

Ymir snorts. “Yeah, pretty much. What did they say to you?”

Krista shrugs, stuffs her hands deeper into her pockets. “That I shouldn’t associate with you. It would be a waste of my academic privilege, whatever that means.”

Ymir full-body laughs this time, not at all shocked and entirely amused. Krista seems wholly offended on her behalf, which is cute. It just isn’t anything new to Ymir. By the pulled taut set of her shoulders as well, she’s sure the adviser said something else to her, something Krista doesn’t feel the need to share, or maybe didn’t feel she had the right to hear. Not like Ymir cares - everyone already knows, by now.

-

Ymir’s room is a mess, and she’s never felt embarrassed about it until now. She kicks her way through piles of clothes, shoves what she can beneath her bed or into her closet, and wishes her dad still smoked enough pot to warrant buying incense - it kind of reeks.

Krista seems quite happy though, plopping herself down on the edge of Ymir’s bed, which is really just a mattress on the floor. Her skirt fans out beneath her, revealing soft, pale thighs, and Ymir doesn’t want to turn into the stereotype everyone else thinks she is, so she looks away.

“I smoke, I hope that’s okay,” Ymir says, turning and walking around the wall to get the large ashtray she’d stolen from a bar from its new home in the kitchen. She sits down in front of Krista once she has it, places the ashtray between the bend of her knees, her tight jeans making it hard to sit cross legged, and then she reaches into her bag to pull out a mangled looking pack of pall malls, one she’d stolen from her dad.

“Let me try one,” Krista says, reaching out her small hand, making pulling gestures with her fingers, “Only American fags we get at home are Marlboro.”

Ymir hands her one cautiously, curious to see if this is her trying to play hard. She sparks up, takes a drag, and then exhales easily.

“Tastes cheap,” Krista says, grinning through the exhalation of smoke, “I like it.”

Ymir laughs. “What do you smoke in England?”

Krista shrugs, twirling the ember around the edge of the ashtray, like she’s trying to sculpt its shape. “Used to be Mayfair, now it’s whatever I can afford.”

Ymir makes a sort of aborted gesture, a flippant nod that’s meant to convey _‘yeah, I totally know what you’re talking about’_ , when really - she’s kind of shocked. Krista seems easy, open to discussing things others might find inappropriate, and she looks so innocent - it’s confusing.

But it’s nice, in a new kind of way. Ymir can’t even remember the last time she had someone over - probably Sasha, at some point, before Sasha discovered boys - and it’s kind of reassuring to note that Krista hasn’t ran away screaming yet. They talk about music and Ymir is more shocked than she should be to hear that Krista knows all of the bands she mentions - she is from the same place as most of them.

They make a sort of quiet pact with each other, sprawled out amongst piles of clothes and ash, limbs heavy and mouths loose. Krista is only here until winter break, only one semester, and Ymir will be her escort - fuck what the teachers think. She can’t really imagine how someone from London could’ve ended up here, a shithole on the edge of the south side of Chicago. Ymir doesn’t question it, just lets it slide into the rather messy pile of ‘Mysteries About Krista’ files she’s cataloging for later.

-

Ymir isn’t used to having this kind of friend.

It’s a little weird, though not at all unwanted, to be seeked out in the crowd of kids bustling through the halls before first period, to be nearly jumped on when you’re found, to have someone your arm fits easily around, a little navigator latched to your side. They usually leave school early when they can, since both their last periods are gym, and no one ever seems to take notice if you aren’t there.

Krista is, apparently, very used to drinking by now. In fact she has the alcohol tolerance of a fucking horse, which makes absolutely no sense at all. She claims it’s because of the drinking age in England, even though she isn’t quite 18 yet. Still, they discover after some trial runs that, with a little bit of dress up at the nimble hands of Krista, Ymir looks old enough to buy their own alcohol. They spend nights drinking cheap wine and sour-facing their way through a small, cheap bottle of vodka.

They share their music tastes, which are somewhat similar, in interesting ways. Where Ymir is told she only like _“depressing whingers”_ , Krista prefers things generally more upbeat. She likes Blondie and older Britpop, which Ymir silently thinks is cool as fuck, but she still calls her a walking stereotype, Krista laughing at Ymir’s attempts to mess up her perfectly straightened platinum hair, telling her to fuck off.

Sometimes they sit with their feet hanging out the window in Ymir’s room, the autumn chill just warm enough still to be able to dangle bare feet against cool concrete. The local kids always ride by on their shitty bikes, the ones younger than them, with older brothers and sisters that know Ymir or go to their school. The boys are especially obnoxious, skidding on worn tires to stop and shout _"dykes!"_ up at them. Ymir flips them off and spits in their general direction, while Krista leans into Ymir’s shoulder to laugh. Sometimes Ymir wonders what they would do if she grabbed Krista’s face and kissed her right in front of them. She would never do it - at least not like that, not yet.

It’s nice having a friend, Ymir realizes, and she isn’t reckless enough to throw that away just yet.

-

A lot of the boys take notice of Krista pretty quick, not surprisingly. There is one in particular that has a very territorial girlfriend, one that Ymir has caught glaring at her as they walk down the halls, Krista obliviously wrapped up in telling stories of _‘how to sleep through French and get away with it’_. They all seem to see her as some sort of threat, even though the only person she ever shows any interest in is Ymir herself, which is as relieving as it is confusing.

So it’s a little alarming when Krista isn’t there at their usual spot by the base of the stairs just before their last period of the day, where they typically walk out together and go listen to music or hop on the el to get lost in the nicer parts of downtown. For a minute Ymir wonders if Krista somehow got caught, or coerced by one of the guidance counselors into finally taking her education seriously (because gym is so fucking important, right), but then she hears it. The soft lilt of a voice she’s come to know by heart, broken in half by an angry scream.

Ymir skids into motion before she even knows what she’s doing, following the sound. As she gets closer to it she hears scuffles, the sounds of shoes scraping on gravel, something being dragged along the ground.

When she gets them in her sight, Ymir’s vision goes red. The jealous bitch from their class has Krista’s hair balled into her fist, has her shoved down to the ground and is pulling her along the concrete driveway towards the dumpsters. Ymir moves without thinking, bolts forward at a shocking speed for someone who started skipping track by the end of the 9th grade, and slams the heel of her palm into the side of the girl’s face, hard enough that she’s shocked into letting Krista go.

And Ymir’s first instinct is to kill the girl, which is frightening, but then she glances down to see Krista’s cut up knees, her eyes wild and her hair a mess, and she can’t focus on anything else. Instead she helps Krista up, holding her back with two arms wrapped around her middle when she immediately surges for the girl that attacked her. She’s kicking and screaming so hard that she’s in the air half the time, Ymir steadfast in pulling her away, ignoring the shaky way Krista’s attacker finally gets to her feet.

“Yeah, walk away, slut!” she shouts, and Ymir grunts when Krista surges forward with renewed strength.

“Fucking cunt, I’ll kill her,” she’s snarling, and Ymir would laugh if she weren’t so focused on getting her out of this girl’s sight, wondering what the hell possessed her to fall for that kind of bait.

“Jesus,” Ymir heaves, finally letting Krista go once they’re only about a block from her apartment, and it seems like Krista has lost enough of her steam for it to be safe, “You don’t give up easily, do you?”

“I don’t let people talk to me that way,” Krista says tightly, smoothing down the knot in her hair. “Or talk about my friends that way.”

Something about the freshly embarrassed flush coupled with the furious tilt to her brows and her mangled hair has Ymir laughing. Krista turns to glare at her, and she shoves weakly at Ymir’s ribs when Ymir pulls her into a hug, holds her hot little head against her breast.

“You’re so cute, man, you’re like a little bulldog,” Ymir laughs into her hair.

Krista snarls out a muffled, _“arsehole,”_ but then she winds her arms around Ymir’s waist anyway.

-

Krista stays over that night, since Ymir’s dad has been gone for a while now, and Ymir is slowly learning that Krista isn’t too fond of her exchange family. The girl in her exchange family is in one of their classes, and she seems to be of the mind that she needs to be defensively jealous of Krista for reasons nobody seems to want to admit to, same as mostly everyone else. It's kind of scary how quickly they all did a complete 180 on her.

Ymir puts on her stereo, pretends to suffer through Krista’s choice of music, and then tries one of these clove cigarettes Krista seemed keen on her buying, gagging at the sweet taste of it. Krista laughs at her, takes an obnoxious drag in her face and then licks the sweetness off her own lips. Ymir goes hot, feels it like a pulse right between her legs, and then turns her head to forcefully ignore it.

Later that night they curl up in Ymir’s bed, legs tangled and facing each other in the dark. The window is cracked open to let the smoke out of her room, so it’s chilly enough to warrant this kind of closeness, even if Ymir is thinking other things.

That’s the problem with all of this - how easy Ymir has realized it is to fall in love with someone. There’s no explosion of color, or even any stark realizations, it’s just looking at the fall of her hair over her forehead and realizing you would do anything for this person. Even while kicking and screaming like a rabid fucking animal.

“I get that a lot, you know,” Krista says, her voice soft, not quite a whisper in the dark. “Not sure why I reacted that way.”

“Get what a lot?” Ymir asks, even though she thinks she knows.

“Get called a slut or a slag. Just because I wear short skirts and color my hair.”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” Ymir says, though she shamefully knows she’s thought the same of other girls in the past, not like she ever cared enough to comment on it.

“It doesn’t, that’s the point,” Krista snorts a laugh, and then nudges her knee between Ymir’s. Ymir feels the contact like a spark travelling up her thighs, and she’s thankful it’s dark because her pupils are probably blown so wide her eyes must look completely black. All Krista is wearing beneath the covers are her soft cotton panties and one of Ymir’s tshirts - her Joy Division one she had printed for herself.

“Then who gives a shit what they think? Let them be dicks about it,” Ymir says, trying to be subtle about the way she wraps her shin around Krista’s, shivering at the cold press of her toes.

“What’s funny is, I’ve never, actually.”

“Never what?”

“Slept with anyone,” Krista says, and Ymir’s stomach leaps when Krista shifts closer to her, nervous excitement lighting like fire in her veins, her heart pounding.

“You’re sleeping with someone right now,” Ymir murmurs, laughing when Krista shoves at her shoulder. She doesn’t let go - her hand lingers over Ymir’s tshirt, just above her breast. Ymir is too dazed to panic that she might feel how heavy her heartbeat is, that she’s too close.

“Not like that,” Krista says, and then she opens her fist over Ymir’s chest, strokes her fingers curiously over the exposed skin at her collarbone. She drops her voice to a whisper as she adds, “I’ve never even had an orgasm.”

Ymir bursts into a shaky, nervous laugh, shocking herself when she realizes how badly she wants Krista’s hand to skitter lower, for her delicate fingers to brush over her nipple. It used to make her feel horrible to think about this, but she can’t help it now, it’s like opening a locked door - everything is exposed, and she realizes she’s allowed to want this, and maybe even allowed to have it.

“You’re full of shit. I refuse to believe you’re too innocent to rub one out,” Ymir says, with more bravado than anything, because the thought of Krista touching herself is making her dizzy.

“Fuck off, I have. Just haven’t come from it, is all.”

And Ymir is shaking now, full bodied, down to the tips of her toes. Krista scoots closer again, turning slowly until she’s on her back. Ymir instinctively shifts so she’s leaning over her on an elbow, and when she asks it isn’t even a question.

“Let me try.”

Krista nods and shifts so her legs are spread, one thigh resting against Ymir’s. The minute Ymir places a somewhat unsteady palm on the softest part of her stomach Krista sighs shakily, the sound so needy and open it makes Ymir’s head feel light.

Ymir skates her hand down, slides trembling fingers over the little ribbon bow on the front of her panties, tugs on it a little. Krista makes a soft keening sound, tilting her hips up, so Ymir allows herself to feel lower, to trace the seam of her pussy on the outside of the cotton. She’s so wet Ymir can feel it, and she loses the ability to keep her head up, her arms too shaky to hold any weight. She ends up scooting close to Krista on her side, pressing her face into her hair, smelling flowers and smoke as Krista locks her leg around Ymir’s, spreading herself so wide open for her.

Krista seems to get impatient as Ymir keeps teasingly rubbing the places she knows Krista wants more of, and she takes Ymir’s hand by the wrist, guides it beneath the elastic waistband of her underwear. Ymir smears the wetness she almost instantly finds, traces every inch of skin with the very tips of her fingers, parts the lips of her pussy and exhales in something similar to pain when she feels Krista quiver beneath her. By the time she actually slips a finger inside Krista she’s beyond dizzy with it, the sounds Krista makes sending sparks of heat down Ymir’s spine, until her own thighs are clenching with some kind of blind restraint.

Ymir fucks her with one finger, slow and careful, panting shaky breaths into the hair right above Krista’s ear. She bunches two fingers together and rubs her clit, smearing wetness everywhere, until Ymir’s hand is covered and sticky. Krista must be close - her thighs begin to tremble, and she reaches over to inexpertly rub at Ymir through the fabric of her underwear. She’s a mess herself, can feel the wetness seeping through to Krista’s curiously eager fingers, and she’s been strung up so tight she’s this close to coming, clenching her thighs and trying not to move to stave it off. Ymir fails only a few minutes in when she comes with a whispered curse into Krista’s hair, pushing her hips forward for more of Krista's touch.

Krista comes with a startled yelp after a long, concentrated effort. Ymir’s wrist aches, but her heart is still pounding so loud she thinks it’ll rip a hole in her shirt. After Krista comes her thighs slam closed and she whimpers at the sensitivity, immediately pushing Ymir’s arm away. Ymir allows herself to lay on her back, her shoulder aching, staring up at the ceiling and panting. She wants to ask if what they just did was okay, but she thinks - hopes - she knows the answer to that already.

Ymir rolls out of her bed silently, stepping out of her damp underwear, and kicking them toward the other pile of laundry that needs to be done. She pads her way to the bathroom in the dark, keeping the lights off as she washes her hands, her body still trembling from nerves and excitement, shoulders hunched.

She jerks hard and gasps when cold hands encircle her waist, laughing in a whisper as Krista sneaks her palms beneath the water, steals some soap suds right from Ymir’s fingers. By the sounds of it, her dad still isn’t home, but she still feels the need to be quiet - like Krista is a secret, something precious and private and hers.

Krista wipes her damp hands off on the back of Ymir’s shirt, giggling when Ymir hisses at the cold and says, “There’s a towel, you ass”. She only makes it worse by lifting Ymir’s shirt, kissing down the highest point she can reach of her back, which is following the bare stretch of spine between her shoulderblades.

“Take this off,” Krista mumbles, tugging upwards on Ymir’s shirt, bunching it under her armpits.

Ymir does, pulling it over the back of her head, almost dislodging her ponytail, and then turns so she’s facing Krista, completely naked in the dark. Krista comes forward immediately kisses up her belly, her sternum, follows the center of her ribs. Ymir does nothing except comb gentle fingers through the knots in her hair, gasping quietly when Krista’s soft, wet mouth kisses openly at her breast, suckling lightly on her nipple.

“Let’s sleep like this,” Krista says, her voice muffled by skin, mouth pressed to the pounding beat of Ymir’s exhausted little heart.

When they make their way back to Ymir’s bed, Krista strips her tshirt off, exposing the curve of her hip, the way her belly comes to a dark vee between her legs. Her breasts are the perfect size for Ymir’s palms, she finds, and touching like this is okay, but kissing Krista’s mouth still feels off limits. When Krista snuggles into her she kisses her forehead only, and then wraps her arms around the soft skin of her back.

They fall asleep in a warm ball of limbs, Krista tucked beneath Ymir’s chin, face pressed to her breasts. When they wake Ymir has a face full of blonde hair and armful of someone she realizes she never intends to let go of.

-

If Ymir has learned anything it’s this: what it means to be in love with the closest thing you’ve ever had to a best friend.

It means asking questions and getting answers with only looks. It means planning everything for two. It means hating the people that look at her like she isn’t worth the world. It means taking showers together and hands finding home in the warmth between legs. It means being just the right height for her to sleep on your shoulder on the bus, or the el. It means finding the prettiest girl in the room and knowing she’s yours, in every possible way. It means being the one to help straighten her hair in the mornings, her small but round little tush fitting neatly between your thighs. It means wanting to marry her, even if you used to hate the idea of it. It means lying with your head on her lap, watching upside down as she puts on her makeup. It means having someone interested enough to count the freckles across the bridge of your nose, someone that wants to know every tiny little inch of you.

It means realizing it’s December and that all good things must come to an end.

-

Krista is really bad at pretending she isn’t crying.

Her exchange family hovers awkwardly to one side, having said their goodbyes and unsure of whether or not they’re meant to do more than take her here. Their daughter has probably wandered off somewhere uninterested, but Ymir isn’t sure, nor has she bothered to check. She’s too focused on Krista.

“Jesus, don’t. You’re gonna kill me,” Ymir groans, holding Krista’s damp cheeks and wiping the stray mascara smudges beneath her eyes.

“Please get a computer, please,” Krista begs quietly, and then seems to lose herself in something, her face crumpling. Ymir’s heart feels like it’s being torn in two. “Please just get one, we’ll keep in touch, please don’t forget about me.”

“I wont, I wont,” Ymir assures her, tries to keep her voice low, to soothe the panic in Krista’s voice. It only comes as instinct to bump their foreheads together, and they’re in a room full of strangers, but somehow this seems private enough - it has nothing to do with anyone but them.

When Ymir kisses Krista for the first time, the first _real_ time, it feels like breathing a new kind of air, like finally doing something right and wondering how the fuck you did it wrong for so long. Krista’s lips are plush and perfect, a little salty from tears, and Ymir couldn’t forget even if she wanted to.

“I’ll come back,” Krista promises, though Ymir isn’t selfish enough to hold her to it.

When she waves as Krista walks backwards from the security checkpoint, Ymir realizes that things have to go back to how they were before. To a cold bed, sheets that don't smell the same. To having to suffer through gym just to be able to pass, to have to walk everywhere alone.

Now is the time to take herself seriously, she decides, because she has someone that needs her to.

-

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-

-

-

-

-

-

Ymir gets off the plane and is immediately overwhelmed by something she can’t really place. Everything’s different, but it isn’t. The people wear different clothes, but they don’t. The view outside the windows is clearer and more crisp, but it isn’t. She almost wore her leather jacket, but the union jack patch on the arm felt like a farce, so she opted instead for a black hoodie with grey skinnies, something she’s thankful for considering how un-fucking-comfortable 8 hours in those cramped seats turned out to be.

She stops about halfway down the walkway towards baggage claim, hoisting her backpack up onto a large cement planter stuck in the middle of a small gathering of duty-free shops to rustle through all the junk for her phone. It would be helpful if they handed out maps here - this airport is fucking enormous.

By the time she’s found her phone most of the people from her flight have already passed her. The quiet morning hush of such a large public place is oddly soothing, the calm before a much needed storm. Ymir waits for her roaming service to kick in, and then immediately, and messily, types out a text.

_'im herre jesus fuck. im here. ill be 2 mins xxxx'_

What she gets back is a ridiculous explosion of emoticons and unintelligible exclamations, which only make her heart stutter with nerves. She shoves her phone back into her bag, cursing as her entire folder full of brochures and course information falls out of it. There’s a splay of _“England Welcomes You”_ and _“Culture shock! Survival guide”_ all over the laminated floors, and she curses herself when her hands shake too hard and she fumbles at picking it all up in one attempt.

She shoves the now disheveled folder in alongside the envelope of cash her dad had given her, and then makes her way to baggage.

Krista looks like a dream when she sees her, one Ymir has had one too many times over the last six or seven months. She’s got on a yellow sundress with a brown leather jacket and these clunky biker boots that make her look shorter than she is, and Ymir feels it like a punch to the stomach - how much she’s missed just being able to see her up close.

Krista jumps on her the minute she sees her, launching herself high into her arms, wrapping legs around her waist. Ymir tries as best she can to keep Krista’s backside modestly covered to the rest of the airport, but stops caring the minute Krista pulls back to kiss her.

Everything’s the same, only different. This time Ymir doesn’t plan to let anyone leave.

 


End file.
